


35/3500 Fic Fest - The Mini-Fics!

by berlynn_wohl



Series: The 35/3500 Fic Fest [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Humor, M/M, Murder Husbands, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 17:19:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 9,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6667537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the spring of 2016, I reached 3500 followers on Tumblr. And if that wasn’t a big enough thrill, I’m about to turn 35. Yikes! I decided to celebrate both of these things by writing 35 fics for my loyal readers. I mined lists of Ask Box memes from sendmesomenumbers.tumblr.com to use as prompts for each fic. </p><p>This is a collection of all the fics under 1000 words (except for the Hannistag fics, which are a separate collection). Fics of over 1000 words are each posted separately on AO3. Check out my series “The 35/3500 Fic Fest” to read all of them!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What were their best subjects in school?

**Author's Note:**

> These fics are arranged by level of slashiness/explicitness, so the first ones are Gen, but the further down you scroll, the dirtier they get!

_1992, Louisiana_

Will Graham’s American Literature teacher, Mr. Stock, had printed this assignment on goldenrod paper, presumably to emphasize its importance. Mr. Stock explained that the last three weeks of the class would be devoted entirely to this assignment.

The sheet was mainly a list of 50 authors. Each student was to choose one of these authors, then write a 3,000-word essay about the author’s life and work. This essay would constitute 25% of one’s grade. The class was given ten minutes to choose who they might be interested in, after which point their names would be drawn by Mr. Stock at random to claim an author. Will went down the list, in search of someone whom he did not find boring.

Alcott

Baldwin

Buck

Cather

Cooper

Eliot

Ellison

This was unbelievable. He could write about Harlan Ellison! He had never been able to do this before, read something he actually liked for a class. It was always slogging through chapter after chapter of _Jane Eyre_ , then tossing it aside in favor of _Different Seasons_ or _Songs of a Dead Dreamer_. He only hoped that someone else did not claim Harlan Ellison first.

Will’s name was the tenth called, and he embarrassed himself by hollering “Ellison!” a bit too loudly.

As soon as he got home, Will began to write with glee about his favorite author, and over the next several weeks went far beyond the 3,000-word minimum to detail Ellison’s horrific existentialist themes, his tales of grim alienation and paranoia, which spoke to Will so deeply.

_Harlan Ellison’s best known short story is “I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream,” where a small group of people are tortured by a sentient machine. The people are unable to band together or find solidarity through their humanity. They hate each other, and so they become trapped forever, mere playthings for the machine._

A trip to the library to find articles on the microfiche about Harlan Ellison himself also proved profoundly entertaining, as Will learned, and then reported on, Ellison’s notorious cantankerousness. He was hilariously abrasive in ways Will found heroic.

Will was beaming even as he handed in his paper. He was confident that his prolific enthusiasm was going to blow Mr. Stock’s mind. But on the last day of the semester, his paper was handed back to him, bearing a large, red “F,” below which Mr. Stock had written in his swooping cursive, “Your report was to have been written on Ralph Ellison. I do not know who Harlan Ellison is.”


	2. How are they with children?

The last family Thanksgiving that Will attended was the one just before his father died. He and his father drove to West Virginia, where he was reunited with a whole lot of people he hadn’t seen since he was a child. He recognized the older relatives from past holidays – they hadn’t changed much, maybe a little grayer. But his cousins he had to have identified for him, as they, like he, had passed through adolescence since he’d last seen them.

His dad pointed out Aunt Fay’s oldest, Billie. Billie was a little younger than Will, probably twenty. He remembered playing Ninja Turtles with her one year. She had wanted to be Leonardo, but he made her be April O’Neil, because she was a girl. He felt bad about that now.

Billie had a son now, Ricky, who was maybe four. Ricky had not been interested in what was being served for Thanksgiving dinner, so afterwards, as the grownups made their way back to the den to watch the football game, Grandma had made him some macaroni and cheese from a blue box. The bowl of mac and cheese sat on the coffee table, and Ricky took a messy bite of it occasionally, but was primarily occupied with visiting each grown-up in the room, telling them about the various plastic animals from his farm set. Everyone else pretended to be raptly interested in what Ricky had to say, their eyes darting surreptitiously to the television screen. Gradually, Ricky made his way closer to Will.

No one had said anything about how uncomfortable and reticent Will had been all day, but as soon as Ricky approached Will, his mother reached out to grab him.

“Don’t bother Uncle Will, now,” Billie admonished, because it was easier than saying, _Don’t bother your first-cousin-once-removed Will_.

“It’s alright,” Will said. He looked down at Ricky’s nuclear-orange-smeared little face. “You like macaroni and cheese, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to know something interesting about macaroni and cheese?”

“Okay.”

Will patted the sofa cushion where he was sitting, and Ricky dutifully climbed onto the sofa and plopped next to him. The other grownups returned their attention to the television while Will whispered. “So a long, long time ago,” he said, “there was a man named Thomas Jefferson. He lived not too far from here, in Virginia, but he had to go work in Europe for a few years. And while he was there, he got to eat some foods that we didn’t have in America yet. One of them was macaroni and cheese. He loved macaroni and cheese so much, when he came back home, he brought some with him on the boat, and then when he had people over, he served them macaroni and cheese, too. And of course now everyone loves it, and that makes Thomas Jefferson one of the most important people who ever lived in this country.”

Will reached into his pocket and fished out a nickel.

“We love Thomas Jefferson so much for bringing us macaroni and cheese, we put him on our money. See? That’s him, and on the back here, that’s his house, where he invited people to eat lots of macaroni and cheese with him. So every time you have macaroni and cheese for dinner, and your mama tells you to say grace, you say ‘Thank you, Thomas Jefferson, for bringing macaroni and cheese to America.’ You got that?”

Ricky nodded proudly. “Yep. Tank you Thomas Jeffison.”

Will put the nickel in Ricky’s palm. “Good boy. You keep that.”


	3. Madonna or Lady Gaga?

Once Abigail was by his side, Will wrote his name on the sign-out sheet and thanked the receptionist. Abigail followed Will out to his car. When they were on the road, she asked, “Can I play some music?”

“Sure,” Will said. But Abigail did not make a move to turn on the radio. Instead, he caught her peering strangely at the dash. “Something wrong?” he asked.

“I’m looking for where to plug in my aux cord.”

“The what?”

“So I can play music.”

“Sorry, but this car is too old for that stuff. I just have the terrestrial radio and the CD player.”

So Abigail switched on the radio, and zoomed around the dial until she found a hit music station. Lady Gaga reassured her listeners, _You’re still good to me if you’re a bad kid, baby_ …

After listening for a minute or so, Will remarked, “This sounds exactly like Madonna. Like her early stuff.”

“Sorry,” Abigail said, and reached for the dial.

“No, no, that’s fine. I used to like Madonna, but back when I was a kid if you were a guy you couldn’t tell anyone that. You’d get called a— well, you’d get called nasty names, we’ll leave it at that.”

The next song was Marina and the Diamonds, crooning _When you’re around me, I’m radioactive_ …

This song did not strike Will as immediately as the last one had, and he spent most of the song trying to think of where he had heard something similar before. Finally, the light bulb switched on, and he said, “You’ve probably never heard of them, but when I was a kid there was a band called The Fixx, and they sounded a lot like this song. Lots of synths and sort of like, forceful but morose vocals.” 

“Oh.” Abigail nodded politely. Will felt a little embarrassed by her reaction.

After that, there was a commercial break, but then the DJ (or the computer, or whoever was in charge of playing songs on the radio these days) played Bruno Mars’ “Locked Out of Heaven.” This time, Will perked up in the first five seconds. “Oh my God,” he gasped, “is this the Police?” Once the first verse began, however, he sank back in his seat.

“I can’t believe that. That sounded just like The Police for a second. Do you like them?”

Abigail shrugged. “They did that stalker song, right?”

“Well, yeah,” Will conceded. They didn’t say anything after that, and they soon arrived at Hannibal’s house.

Later that evening, Will returned Abigail to the psychiatric hospital. As he was writing his name in the right-hand column of the sign-out sheet, he said conversationally to the receptionist, “You know what’s great? The music that the kids are listening to these days.”


	4. What’s their sense of humor like?

Will led the way down the corridor, away from the lecture hall and towards the building’s main entrance. He made a detour, much to Hannibal’s momentary confusion, explaining, “I’m just gonna grab a coffee from the breakroom before we head out, if that’s alright.” Hannibal said that was perfectly fine.

In the breakroom, a small group was gathered around a woman showing off pictures on her phone.

“And how old is she now?” said one of them.

“Thirteen and a half months,” the woman replied. “Oh, Will! Would you like to see?”

Will didn’t. He finished pouring his coffee into a styrofoam cup, then walked over to the woman. Hannibal stood by and observed as Will politely looked at the pictures.

“Oh, uh-huh,” he said, with the vaguest tone he could muster. He remembered when the birth announcement had gone out to the entire staff. “And what was it that you named her? Long Island?”

The woman blinked. “Uh, no, her name is Brooklyn.”

“Right, yeah.” Will turned and walked out. Hannibal followed, barely containing a delighted grin.


	5. Have you ever stolen a street sign before?

Perusing Will’s bookshelf, Hannibal peered behind some paperbacks and caught a glimpse of something flat and metallic. He removed the paperbacks from the shelf until he could see enough of the object to identify it: a street sign, white text and border on blue, with a single word: _Mystery_.

“Ready to go?” Will asked, as he herded the dogs back into the house.

“What’s this?” Hannibal pointed to the sign.

“Oh, haha, yeah, that’s an actual street in New Orleans. ‘Mystery.’ I went there for spring break one year, and my buddies – well, they weren’t really my friends, they were just some guys – anyway, they dared me to steal it. So I went back later that night and I did. I always kept it, ‘cause I like it. A lot of kids stole construction signs or whatever, but I like that one. _Mystery_. It’s unique.”

“A surprising tale in the life of a law enforcement officer.”

“I had to,” Will reasoned. “They dared me. You don’t just turn down a dare.” Will looked at Hannibal, whose expression betrayed no indication that he could sympathize or relate. “I guess I just wanted their respect,” Will continued, lamely. “You do things like that when you’re twenty.”

“I understand perfectly,” Hannibal assured him. “Shall we?” He gestured to the door.

“Yep,” Will said. As he locked the door behind him, he asked Hannibal, “By the way, are you sure you’re okay with coming all the way out here to take care of the dogs while I’m at that conference?”

“It will be no trouble at all, I assure you.”

“Okay, well, I still owe you one.”

The following week, Will was relaxing in his hotel room in Virginia Beach when his cell phone rang. It was Hannibal.

“Do you remember how you said you owed me a favor, for taking care of your dogs?”

Will scrubbed his hand down his face. It had been a long day of pretending that he liked being around crowds of people and industry salesmen, and he just wanted to kick back and watch some television, alone. “Yeah, what can I do for you?” he said, strained.

“There’s a golf course near you. Bow Creek. I want you to drive to the northwest corner of it, and then call me back.”

Will didn’t know how to respond to this.

“I promise you,” Hannibal said, “there is a purpose to what I’m asking you to do.”

“Okay, fine, I can do that. I know where it is. I’ll call you in twenty minutes or so.”

Will drove to where Hannibal had indicated, parked his car on a residential street, and called Hannibal back. “Alright, I’m on Club House Road.” He looked out the window. It was twilight, and it was hard to read the other street sign, but Will managed to puzzle it out. “Granite Trail, that’s the cross street.”

“Excellent,” said Hannibal. “Get out of your car and walk west on Club House Road.”

Will did as he was told, holding the phone to his ear. “What am I looking for?”

“Just walk to the end of the block.”

Will looked up and quailed. “Oh my god, are you kidding me?” The green street sign said HANNIBAL ST.

“Will,” Hannibal said, his voice low and suggestive now. “ _I dare you_.”


	6. What's your strangest talent?

Spring comes slowly to their cabin on the side of the mountain, but when it does, it is a burst of thick, verdant glory, surrounding their little home, punctuated by clusters of buttercups and jasmine. For the first time that year, it is warm enough to have the windows open, but after flinging up the first sash, Will finds the cool breeze woefully insufficient. “Let’s go for a hike,” he suggests. Hannibal closes his book and goes to find some appropriate shoes.

Here there are no trails, no tourists with whom to share the views of rolling foothills and jagged peaks, the soaring golden eagles, the blue moths drinking from the snow melt.

They have not walked far before Hannibal pauses, and gazes thoughtfully at the ground. Will stands by for a moment, before Hannibal says, “All the years we’ve known each other, and this is the first opportunity I have had to show you my most remarkable ability.”

Will looks down at the ground and sees nothing remarkable at all. He looks all around, but Hannibal has not taken his eyes off the ground. “Okay?” he says dubiously, drawing out the last syllable.

Hannibal crouches down and plucks a piece of clover from the patch at his feet. He bids Will hold out his hand, and then places the clover in his palm. It has not three, but four identical and perfectly symmetrical leaves.


	7. Do you have any pets?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I kinda cheated on this one. I wrote this a while ago. It was meant to be the first part of my fic "Hannibal Lecter’s Weakness," but I cut it out because it seemed overlong and superfluous.

The dogs were not allowed in the kitchen when Will ate meals at home. He never fed them from his own plate. With such a large pack, establishing and maintaining dominance was the only way to keep order in the house. Each new dog's first lesson was that Will was the alpha, and this lesson was reiterated daily; each time he provided affection only as a reward for obedience; each time he took them all out for a pack walk, and forbade them to get in front of him; each time he entered the house and refused to greet them eagerly, though he was always thrilled to see them, and feel their love. 

Alana had commented once that this strict behavior was incongruous, that someone with his heightened emotional condition ought to be more susceptible to indulging pets, especially dogs, who so readily gave affection to anyone who was kind to them. 

But his empathy was precisely the reason why his relationship with his pack was so strict: they were the only thing that reassured him that he was more than a passive receptacle that everyone else loaded emotional refuse into with the hope that he would forge it all into a key to solving a case. He was his pack's whole world; thanks to them, he could believe that he was not just an instrument to be taken from the FBI's drawer at Jack Crawford's convenience. 

He was good with dogs because he _understood_ dogs. He understood that they lived in the moment, that it was impossible to punish a dog for something it had done in the past. He understood that they needed a leader, and that a human cannot assume a leadership role if their behavior is weak or inconsistent. 

“I understand dogs,” Will said to himself one evening, as he blended some eggs into the ground chicken for his pack's supper. “I know how dogs think, and I can think like one. That doesn't mean I'm going to become a dog.” 

He took the dishes from the kitchen to the front door. The dogs followed, silently, and when he opened the door, they knew that their food would be served on the porch, but they stayed back and let Will pass through the doorway first. As Will put the dishes on the porch, he continued thinking aloud, “So just because I understand Doctor Lecter, and I can think like him, that doesn't mean I'm going to become him.” 

Will leaned against the porch railing and watched the sun setting behind the trees. 

Hannibal had many strengths and he employed them unreservedly. But he also had limitations, weaknesses; he just didn't allow anyone to know what they were. Perhaps it took Will so long to really think about this because he had to put so much effort into coping with his own weaknesses being known to everyone: that his empathy was powerful but it hurt him, that he was forced to stay withdrawn from society most of the time, so that he could deal with those occasions when he was compelled to employ his special ability. Will had strength inside him, as well, but he could not project it, in the meantime he was forced to project his weakness at all times. This was how Hannibal had gotten to him. Hannibal was no more acutely aware of Will's weakness than anyone else, he simply had more opportunity and more inclination to exploit it. 

Will had had a lot of time to think, in his cell in Baltimore. He had spent a lot of that time thinking about exploiting Hannibal's weaknesses. But he had not happened upon the solution there. Instead, he had been responsible for the rampaging chaos that had left Beverly Katz and Abel Gideon dead, and the fates of Matthew Brown and Frederick Chilton uncertain. And never at any point had Will even brushed against Hannibal's weakness...because he had refused, in all that time, to acknowledge that Hannibal Lecter's true weakness was Will Graham. All along, Will's supposed weakness was what allowed him to perceive – but could not force him to consciously acknowledge – the truth, which was that Hannibal coveted him. Desired him. Having exhausted all other options, Will had no lure left but himself with which to catch the Chesapeake Ripper. 

Hannibal thought he had found an equal in Will, but was an equal really what he wanted? Or would he merely congratulate himself for having tamed and possessed one who, while still inferior to Hannibal himself, at least stood head and shoulders above the rabble? Would Hannibal feel fulfilled, having at last found someone who _saw_ him, who was worthy of seeing him for what he was? Or would Will become another trophy for Hannibal, the most withdrawn and resistant hero that Hannibal was ever able to seduce and transform? The very fact that Will was worried that this would happen was an indicator of his own contradictory feelings about Hannibal, his awareness that his fascination with Hannibal might extend beyond his task of stopping the Chesapeake Ripper once and for all. 

As uncomfortable as these thoughts were, the time to face them was now, or else everything, every lost life, would be in vain. He had to trust in his ability to employ with Hannibal the talents he'd already honed with his pack: steadfast control, imperviousness to raw emotional appeal, and – most importantly, now – an instinct for when to withhold, and when to provide, affection. 


	8. What was the last movie you saw in theatres?

Both Will and Hannibal were home, but when the delivery man knocked on the door, they did not answer. He left the package on their doorstep and moved on. Hannibal went out to retrieve the package an hour or so later.

Will was in the living room reading a copy of _Vanity Fair_. He was disappointed that the article about them, “Murder Husbands: The Full Story,” was not the feature, but touted modestly in the bottom right corner of the cover. But those were the breaks when you existed at the same time as Beyoncé.

“What did you order?” Will asked, as Hannibal walked by carrying the package.

“Just a little something for Halloween,” Hannibal answered in a vaguely sing-song voice.

“Even if it weren’t tempting fate to open our doors to trick-or-treaters, and even if any trick-or-treaters were willing to journey this far out, I’m not entirely sure there are even any children in Harding County.”

“Indeed. But Halloween affords us an opportunity to return to civilization, at least for an evening. It’s a ninety-minute drive to Santa Fe, and once there, we can don masks and walk amongst the crowds incognito.”

Will flipped the page of the magazine. “Yeah, you know how much I love crowded city streets, and how excited I’ve been to hang out with strangers in a tourist town.”

“A local performing arts center will be screening _The Man Who Fell To Earth_ ,” Hannibal said, with a deliberately nonchalant air.

Will looked up. “Really?”

“Oh, do you like that film?” Hannibal said innocently. “Does that interest you?”

Will set aside the magazine and gestured to the package. “Shut up and show me the masks you bought.”

Hannibal took a knife from his pocket and cut the tape on the box. From, it he pulled two cheap, mass-produced rubber masks, meant to be true-to-life, and thus even more grotesque than if they had been cartoonish. He held them up for Will to see, in all their collapsed latex glory. “Do you want to be Hannibal Lecter,” he asked, “or Will Graham?”


	9. Who cooks normally?

Hannibal used his fingers to make a little well in the center of the dry ingredients. “Just break the eggs into that well, then add the water. Beat the eggs in the well, and when they’re mixed, slowly combine them with the dry ingredients.”

“Got it.” Will took up a fork and did as he was told, mixing the eggs into a little pool of pale gold in the middle.

Hannibal left Will to this task and went to check on the “pork” belly in the oven. It needed plenty more time to roast, but things were coming along just fine. The broth looked good as well; he had started it the night before, and fifteen hours later, all the bones in the pot were bare, the stock slick and opaque. It was time to start working on the remaining ingredients. He brought out an onion, slicing it thin and evenly until Will asked for further instruction.

“Now you knead it,” he said.

“For how long?” Will asked, as he slapped the ball of dough onto the clean counter.

“When it stops sticking to your hands so much. Press down with your palm and lift it. When the dough comes unstuck after about a second, it is the correct consistency.”

Will rolled and kneaded the dough until he could do just that. Then he shook his sore arms out and asked, “What’s next?”

Hannibal had a damp cloth all ready to go for him. “Wrap it up in this cloth. We’ll wait half an hour or so, until the dough is rested so we can stretch it. In the meantime, you can help me with the cutting.” He brought out the garlic and ginger, and showed Will how to hold the knife.

When the dough had had plenty of time to rest, Hannibal handed Will the rolling pin, explaining that the dough should be stretched out to about a millimeter in width, at which point it would be time to spread some flour on the surface and fold it. “So that each cut with the knife will yield twice as much,” he explained.

With a wide, square knife, and liberal and frequent application of flour, Will cut the dough into the thinnest strips he could manage. The repetition was hard on his hands and arms, which were already sore from the earlier kneading, and he remarked testily, “Don’t you ever get tired of all this work and think about just making some ramen once in a while?”

“We _are_ making ramen,” Hannibal sighed.


	10. Have you ever been too shy to say something important?

Will had been having meals sitting across from Hannibal for years now. He knew every single one of Hannibal’s habits: how he held his utensils, how he nudged his plate (and when he found it necessary to do so), what order he consumed items in, or how he combined them on his fork. But the most important habit of Hannibal’s that Will had noticed was, whenever he took a sip from his glass of wine, he would close his eyes. The better to savor it, presumably.

Tonight happened to be one of the nights when it was crucial to know Hannibal had his eyes closed for that second or so – every time his eyelids slid shut to better enjoy his Riesling, Will picked up a green bean from his plate and dropped it into the napkin in his lap.


	11. Are you skilled at something most would consider unusual or esoteric nowadays?

Will was deep in concentration, hunched over a vice and tying an iridescent feather to a hook, when Hannibal walked into the room. “Will?”

Will looked up from his work. “Oh, hey, there you are! I was wondering where you’d gone.”

“Can I ask you a—”

“Real quick, before I forget,” Will interrupted. “I just wanted to let you know: you shouldn’t leave your theremin out. Or maybe keep the door closed? The dog was in there I think, he must have been sniffing at it or something.” He shrugged. “Anyway, what were you going to say?”

Hannibal glowered at Will. “I was just going to ask what you thought of my new composition.”


	12. What is the best trick you've ever pulled on someone?

On Hannibal’s orders, Will and Abigail sat patiently in the dining room while he finished up in the kitchen. Abigail was excited, and Will was pleased as well, because Hannibal was finally fulfilling their request for a good old fashioned spaghetti feast, complete with cheap, powdery parmesan cheese and huge chunks of garlic bread.

Hannibal called from the kitchen. “Both of you have made it clear to me that you needed a break from what you consider my overly elaborate dishes, so tonight I’m keeping it simple.” At this, Will and Abigail smiled at each other, but they were nonplussed by what Hannibal said next: “Minimalist, even, you might say, after the _nouvelle cuisine_ school.”

When Hannibal entered the room, he was balancing three suspiciously sparse plates. He set Abigail’s and Will’s down in front of them: upon each sat a perfectly spherical meatball, surrounded by a single, meticulously spiraled noodle.

“ _Spaghetto_ ,” Hannibal announced. He seated himself, then looked eagerly back and forth at his two dining companions. “Hm?”

Frozen in bafflement, Will and Abigail stole a shared glance. Then, slowly, Will picked up his fork.

Hannibal laughed. “I’m only joking. April Fools, my darlings!” He stood up again, then leaned over and gave Abigail a peck on the forehead, and then did the same, not quite as chastely, to Will.

Abigail buried her face in her hands. Will squeezed his eyes shut. It was indeed the first of April, and they hadn’t even realized it. Hannibal went back into the kitchen, returning with a tray of garlic bread and a huge pot filled with spaghetti in meat sauce, which he proceeded to fork onto their plates in great heaps.


	13. Do you still watch cartoons?

In the hotel room’s kitchenette, a garishly-hued box of sugary cereal sat on the counter, its flaps still open. In the main room of the suite, Hannibal could hear the jumbled bleeps and crackles of a television being flipped from station to station. He found Will sitting on the couch, crunching away at a huge bowl of cereal he was holding, fiddling with the remote with his free hand.

“What’s going on here?” Hannibal asked.

“Well, you know you were talking about how, now that I have accepted this life for myself, I can enjoy the freedom of an existence without the oppressive shackles of society? Foregoing any further pretense of law-abiding convention in favor of reveling in a whole new feral and shameless lust for life and all that? Well, that’s great, but then I realized what I haven’t done in a long time, and what I want to do now, no matter whether anyone says it’s wicked or depraved, is eat some Fruity Pebbles and watch Saturday morning cartoons, just like I did when I was at my most carefree and liberated: age eight.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Hannibal said, sitting down beside Will. “So what’s on?”

“That’s the problem: there are no Saturday morning cartoons anymore!” Frustrated with his third fruitless cycle through a hundred channels, Will tossed the remote on the ground. “Even the goddamn Disney channel is showing a live-action show about tweens who have record deals.”

“What kinds of shows were you hoping to see?”

“I dunno, the kind I had when I was a kid, I guess.” Will began to reminisce: “I knew every _Schoolhouse Rock_ song. I could tell you all about conjunctions. And there was the _Bugs Bunny/Road Runner Show_. Oh my God, I loved Looney Tunes. I saw every single Looney Tunes cartoon, except the racist ones that they don’t show on TV. I liked Foghorn Leghorn, ‘cause he talked like my uncle who spoiled me whenever I saw him. He took me to a monster truck show once. And in 1983, they had all these shows, I mean, you couldn’t ever put them on the air again, they were so of-the-time, like there was a Pac-Man cartoon, and there was one called _Rubik the Amazing Cube_ …”

Will took a moment to shovel some cereal in his mouth, then told Hannibal all about an episode of _Rubik the Amazing Cube_ that he remembered, where a relative of the show’s villain had found Rubik, but realized that the villain – an evil wizard, specifically – would use Rubik for nefarious purposes, and so instead returned him to the possession of a group of siblings, who had all sorts of adventures with him each week. Hannibal listened patiently while Will ruminated about other shows he had watched, sometimes talking with his mouth full of cereal.

At last, Will slurped the last of the rainbow-colored milk from the bowl. “Hmm. Thanks, I feel a lot better, thinking about those shows. I’ll bet if there actually were any cartoons on, they wouldn’t be as good as I remember those old ones being.” He set the empty bowl on the table; the spoon clinked against the ceramic of the dish. Then he said, pensively, “You know, you really are a good therapist.”


	14. Have you ever been betrayed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to the previous fic.

Hannibal watched with dismay as Will scattered blocks of Styrofoam, plastic bags, and unwound cords all across the living room. “The cartoons were one thing,” he said, “but now you’re cluttering up the room with one of _those_ eyesores?”

Not discouraged in the least by Hannibal’s opinion, Will slid the _Super Mario Bros_ / _Duck Hunt_ cartridge into the console, entirely uninterested in cleaning up all the packaging before he started having fun. “When I was a kid,” he said, “all I wanted was an NES, but we couldn’t afford one. But my cousin had one, and whenever we went to visit, he let me play it.” After turning on the console, he plugged in the zapper, and also one of the controllers, which he used to select _Duck Hunt_ on the menu. Tossing the controller aside, he went on, “I wasn’t very good at the platform games, but I was a goddamn genius at _Duck Hunt_.”

“You’ve always had the knack with a firearm, hm?” Hannibal said, crossing the room to sit on the sofa behind Will as the hound dog sniffed its way across the screen.

“Watch this. I haven’t played in twenty-seven years, but I’ll bet I can get half a million points the first time out. You’re going to feel a baffling but irresistible sexual attraction to me when you see my prowess at this game.”

But to Will’s surprise, what flew across the screen in the first round was not a slow, easy target, but a zipping, darting collection of pixels so fast it was only barely recognizable as a duck. Will gasped, “What the hell?” but made a go of it, missing each time and allowing the duck to fly away off the top of the screen. “This is not how I remember it,” he lamented as the dog popped up to giggle at his misfortune. He hunkered down and got more focused for the second duck, following it with the zapper as it whizzed around the screen. He took so long to aim, trying to anticipate where it _would_ be, that his time ran out, and the duck flew away. The dog laughed at him again.

Now he was frustrated, and fired wildly at the third duck without result. A few notes of mournful music became a tauntingly cheery tune as the game announced, GAME OVER.

“I don’t know what the hell that was about,” Will muttered, and turned back to shrug at Hannibal to indicate his bafflement. But what he saw was Hannibal, controller in hand, his face a guileless mask.

“Sorry,” Hannibal said, pointing innocently at the controller. “Did you not know that the second player can control the ducks?”


	15. Are you a competitive person?

Hannibal unlocked and opened the door one-handed, as he held a paper grocery bag against his hip with his other arm. He closed the door carefully with this free hand, not by shoving it with his shoulder or kicking it. His first breath taken in the entryway held not the familiar scent of home, but a cheap, greasy combination of garlic, ginger, chili, fermented soybeans, and sesame oil.

Will ignored Hannibal when he came through the dining room on his way to the kitchen, and continued shoveling rice and shrimp into his mouth with a pair of wooden chopsticks while he read a paperback novel. Hannibal called back over his shoulder, as he set the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter, “I was going to make you peppered tuna with nicoise salad for dinner.”

“Okay, well, that’s great,” Will replied, “but I wanted Chinese food, so I went and got some.”

Hannibal came back into the dining room just to savor Will’s utterly unrepentant expression, complete with a smear of sweet-and-sour sauce at the corner of his mouth. Needing to turn the page, Will set his chopsticks down on their wrapper, which he had turned into [a simple stand](http://www.origami-resource-center.com/images/diagram-chopstick-rest-3.jpg) by folding it a few times. Hannibal sat down across from Will, and fished around in the discarded paper bag until he came up with another, as yet untouched, set of chopsticks. He tore the end of the wrapper carefully and removed the chopsticks from inside. Setting aside the chopsticks, he folded the wrapper several times, pressing each crease tightly between his fingers and the tabletop, until he had produced [a little bird](http://www.origami-resource-center.com/images/diagram-chopstick-bird-4.jpg), with an accordion-like tail. Upon this, he set the chopsticks.

He waited patiently until Will looked at it, but if Will was impressed, he did not show it. He turned another page in his book. Hannibal got up and went into the kitchen to start dinner.

The following morning, Hannibal awoke to find that Will was already up and out of bed. He checked the time on the bedside clock, and found that a little dog had been placed there. It had been folded from a piece of the brown parchment paper Hannibal used for baking. Hannibal had seen this particular design before, and when he picked it up, he knew to pinch its front legs and pull on the tail to make it “[bark](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZXGHX3gO1b0).”

When Will pulled back the covers that evening to get into bed, he jumped with fright at the sight of an enormous spider the size of his hand. But the spider did not move, and a second look reassured Will that it was, in fact, [an elaborately folded imitation](http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3115/2722145014_336cc52a5f.jpg).

Will said nothing about this to Hannibal, when Hannibal joined him in bed, but Will did announce that he would be getting up extra early to go to the lake and do some fishing. He promised that he would bring back something delicious for Hannibal to cook.

Hannibal had the house to himself, until Will returned around lunchtime. As was usual for mid-day, he was in the kitchen, thumbing through his recipe box. “Any luck this morning?” he asked Will.

“Huge catch today,” Will replied, beaming. “Have a look.”

He hauled his bucket up onto the counter, as though it were quite heavy, but Hannibal looked inside to find that it was full of origami [koi fish](http://cdn.instructables.com/FOC/56AR/HPFZRRQY/FOC56ARHPFZRRQY.MEDIUM.jpg). Will headed off to shower; Hannibal sighed and flipped past the fish dishes to chicken recipes.

“Have you seen my wallet?” Will asked two days later, hollering as he darted from room to room. “I’m out of thread and I was going to work on my lures. I know it’s around here. Maybe when you were doing laundry…?”

Without bothering to look up from his tablet, Hannibal called back, “I’m afraid I haven’t seen it. But if all you need is money, I have some.”

Will came to the living room, saying, “Thanks. I haven’t left the house since the last time I had my wallet in my hand. I’ll look more later.”

“Nothing to worry about,” Hannibal said, reaching over to the end table to pick something up. “I’m afraid all I’ve got is a hundred.” He handed Will a hundred-dollar bill which had been manipulated impossibly into the shape of [a dragon](http://media02.hongkiat.com/dollar-bill-origamis/chinese-dragon.jpg).

Staring at it, Will said, “I never regretted my decision to run away with you, until this moment.”


	16. Do you care if people talk badly about you?

CORRECTIONS

In our January issue, we published an article about the flight of Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, following Lecter’s escape from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Staff writer Teddy Tsujikawa wrote, “Like Leopold and Loeb, these homosexual misfits believe that their intellectual superiority absolves them of guilt for their horrific crimes.” Several readers wrote in to let us know that Lecter and Graham are, in fact, bisexual. (Their misfit status remains uncontested.)

– The Editors.


	17. Do you have any irrational fears?

Will was having trouble keeping his attention on the menu, despite the fact that there were only six items on it. He would start to read about an entrée, then look over his shoulder, then try to finish reading about that entrée, then get distracted again looking behind him. Hannibal noticed this, and said, “Everything alright?”

“Um, I’m sorry to be fussy, but can we switch seats?”

Hannibal, who was usually so fond of fulfilling Will’s every fleeting desire, allowed the corner of his mouth to turn down in the slightest. Nonetheless, he said curtly, “That’s fine.”

He started to move, but then Will said, “Is there a problem?”

“On the rare occasions when I find myself seated at a restaurant, or any public place, I don’t like having my back to the door. It’s an irrational anxiety, but it is mine to endure.”

Hearing this, Will cringed. “See, that’s why I was asking if you wanted to switch seats. I don’t like having my back to the door either.”

After pondering this for a moment, Hannibal’s tone suddenly became more cheerful. “Well, there’s an easy solution. You can sit next to me on this side of the booth.”

Will grimaced at the suggestion. Lacking a better solution, he accepted it, but protested as he re-seated himself. “This is one of my other irrational fears, though,” he said. “Being one of _those_ couples.”


	18. Would you rather know everything the universe has to offer but in exchange lose all emotions or remain the way you are now?

“This book has some interesting questions in it,” Will said, interrupting Hannibal’s own reading. He recited one of these supposedly interesting questions out loud: “Would you choose to know everything the universe has to offer if it meant you would lose all emotions?”

Hannibal had an amused little snort at this. “What makes you think I have not already struck that bargain?” he asked.

“I have occasionally had my suspicions,” Will admitted. “But I know it can’t be true, because there is at least one emotion you still have.”

“What’s that?”

Will looked askance at him, not believing that Hannibal couldn’t guess what he meant. Finally, he grinned and said, in extravagant, syrupy tone, “Wuv.”

Hannibal remained confounded. “I beg your pardon?”

Returning to his book, Will said again, “Wuv,” quieter this time but far more pleased with himself.


	19. Have you ever forgotten important dates like your partner's birthday or your anniversary?

Will was wrist-deep in Neil Wakefield’s abdominal cavity, assisting while Hannibal made several precise cuts with his scalpel. He suddenly had a thought, and looked up at the calendar on the wall of the dimly-lit dentist’s office. It featured a happy cartoon tooth.

“Shit, I just realized,” Will whispered. “It’s the tenth of May.”

Hannibal replied with a noncommittal grunt; he was concentrating.

“I can’t believe we both forgot our own anniversary,” Will sighed, then snapped at Hannibal, “Especially you! How could you have forgotten? You’re always on top of that stuff.”

His incisions complete, Hannibal pulled the erstwhile dentist’s kidney from his body. He lifted it up like he was using it to deliver a toast. “Happy anniversary, Will,” he said, his expression not a little smug.

Will cocked his head. “Wait. You _didn’t_ forget! Was this whole evening just for me?”

Hannibal gave a coy shrug. “I know how much you love steak and kidney pie,” he said, before sealing up the organ and placing it in their little cooler. He and Will exchanged a long, warm smile before returning to their work.


	20. What's a song that always makes you happy when you hear it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is the song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HC4bf67s5lQ

Will cracked the spaghetti in half and dropped it into the pot of boiling water. With a fork, he unclumped it, and stirred it as it began to soften. He cooked defiantly simple meals whenever he could manage it these days. On the radio, the DJ thanked the listeners for tuning in to the station's “block party weekend,” then cued up another track; Will had only been half-listening, but when he heard those first few familiar notes of jangling guitar, he lifted his head in delighted recognition. Moments later, when the drums and keyboard joined in, Will swung the fork as if he were a conductor bringing them in himself.

Stepping away from the stove for a moment, Will went to check and make sure that Hannibal was still in the shower. He put his ear to the door, heard the water still running. That meant Will had a few more minutes of privacy. By now, the saxophone had come in, and when Will came back into the kitchen it was with a flourishing gesture, as though he were entering a stage. While waiting for the first lyric, he bounced over to the dish cupboard, pulling down two plates and two wine glasses.

At last, as he set them down, he could sing along with the first line of the song, though it might have been more accurately described as hollering along: _Spread out now Rosie doctor come cut loose her mama's reins..._ Will fleetingly acknowledged, to himself, that the words, if spoken rather than sung, would seem nonsensical. But this was a song from those golden years when Bruce Springsteen fancied himself a lyricist in the tradition of Bob Dylan, imitating Dylan's propensity for obliqueness and metaphor, but with a soaring exuberance and anthemic, wall-to-wall production. There was something so irresistibly joyful about this song, Will could not fight – did not want to fight – the way it always lifted his spirits.

Bopping over to the stove, Will checked the spaghetti again. It was nearly ready; he stirred it as he half-crooned, half-shouted, _And Rosie, you're the one!_ As the song built towards the first chorus, Will bent down to retrieve the colander from the bottom cupboard, and when that first _Rosalita!_ landed, he popped up, then swayed and dipped to the driving beat, rocking side-to side, from one foot to the other. Everything he did from there on out, he did to that beat, from dumping the spaghetti into the strainer, to giving the simmering sauce a final stir, to switching the burners off.

He let himself get a little carried away now, covering the spaghetti so it would not get cold while he indulged himself a little longer, crooning _So Rosie, come out tonight_... Soon, there was no longer even the pretense of preparing dinner to the rhythm of the song or timing his setting of the table to the beat – he was just dancing, and soon the song surged to even greater heights. Already during the verse, his gestures had been exultant; when the chorus came he wished he could just explode with rapturous energy. _So hold tight baby, 'cause don't you know daddy's coming!_ he yelled along. As the music built towards the final, rollicking chorus, there was a sudden, two-beat silence. Will spun and imitated the band's collective _OhhhhhhhhHAH!_ just before this climactic pause, and, as though he himself were on a stage, spun dramatically a hundred and eighty degrees to emphasize it.

It was then that he saw Hannibal, dressed and standing in the doorway. He froze with mortification, letting the song continue on its raucous way without him. But Hannibal did not waste time acknowledging Will's embarrassment; he just strode up to Will, grabbing his hands and spinning the two of them around, bringing their bodies together, rocking and swaying the both of them back and forth, a strange variation on a swing dance that matched the song's hard, symphonic rock n' roll energy. Hannibal let go one of Will's hands, then yanked him back into his arms. Unable to resist, Will followed Hannibal’s lead out of pure, stunned bewilderment, and he was only let go when the song reached its chaotic, jubilant denouement.

Kissing a still-stunned Will lightly on the cheek, Hannibal said, “The spaghetti is getting cold,” and took up the corkscrew and wine bottle from the kitchen counter.


	21. Do you have a photo of yourself when you were younger?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This fic is based on that photo of a young Hugh Dancy, when he was at Oxford. See it here: hananara.tumblr.com/post/136673074809/hugh-dancy-during-his-time-at-st-peters-college

The spine of the old photo album cracked when Will opened it. “I think in this one, all the pictures of me are toward the back,” he said. He flipped to the last few pages, which held pictures of Will at various stages of childhood. There was one additional photo that had been stuck between the last page and the back cover, as there was no room remaining amongst the album pages.

The photo showed a young, beardless Will, looking thoughtful and delicate as he sat barefoot on a lawn of fresh green grass, fiddling with his long hair, neglecting an open bottle of wine in favor of a writing project, which he was clearly engrossed in.

“I’ll bet you’re sorry you missed me when I looked like this,” Will chuckled, “not all old and scarred-up like I am now.”

But then Will looked at Hannibal’s face. He had never seen such rapacious awe; it made his stomach turn over. “Actually,” he said hastily, clearing his throat, “it’s probably better that you didn’t encounter me back then. I wouldn’t have survived.”

Hannibal gently took the photo from Will’s hands and examined it’s slight, heavenly subject more closely. “I would have fallen at your feet instantly, and offered you any amount of money if you would agree to pose for me while I sculpted your likeness in alabaster.”

Will made a dismissive noise as he plucked the picture from Hannibal’s hands and tried to put it back in the album. “More like, you would have laid down a big piece of ciabatta bread on the ground, and when I walked over it, you’d have slammed another piece on top of me with a slice of Saint Andre cheese and devoured the whole thing.”

Snatching the photo back from Will for another look, Hannibal insisted, “I would have dedicated several years to carefully constructing a _terza rima_ ode to your beauty.”

Will gave Hannibal a dubious smirk. “You would have begged me to let you suck my toes, and then spanked my ass until your hand fell off.”

“I would have made sure that an etching of you on a gold plate made it onto any probes that were to be sent into outer space,” Hannibal asserted, “to give extraterrestrial life forms the best possible impression of the human form.”

“Actually,” Will said, lifting an eyebrow and holding his hand out for the photo, “you probably wouldn’t have done any of that, because within seventy-two hours of meeting me, you would have died from beating off too much.”

“That, I may have to agree with,” Hannibal sighed, and handed the photo back.


	22. Ever had a poem or song written about you?

Hannibal always slept contentedly, but never more soundly than after a satisfying orgasm administered by Will Graham. The night before, they had stayed up late, so late that it became early, and Hannibal had asked for a little birthday favor, seeing as how it was now one minute past midnight and so officially his birthday. Not that Will was reluctant to provide such favors any other day of the year, but nor was Hannibal reluctant to ask for the things he wanted, every day of the year.

Admittedly, last night’s amorous interlude had become slightly awkward towards the end, but when Hannibal awoke that morning, he smelled breakfast cooking, which reassured him that there were no hard feelings on Will’s part. Hannibal made his way to the kitchen, where Will was mysteriously absent but where a plate heaped with still-steaming eggs, bacon, and pancakes sat on the dining room table. Next to the plate was a cloth napkin rolled around the silverware, a little vase filled with wildflowers picked from outside, and a folded up piece of Hannibal’s ivory stationery.

Hannibal sat himself at the table, spread the napkin into his lap, and picked up the piece of paper. He unfolded it slowly, wishing to savor the experience and fully enjoy Will’s message inside.

In Will’s inelegant but clear script, Hannibal read:

 _Roses are red,_  
_Violets are blue,_  
 _Fuck you for coming right in my goddamn eye last night_  
 _It still stings, you bastard_

_Happy Birthday._


	23. Are things going the way you planned?

Hannibal still tended to wake at dawn, out of habit, though these days it was rare that he actually got  out of bed so early. Today, he opened his eyes at the first hint of gray light coming in through the sheer curtains, and rolled onto his side to gaze at Will, who was still deeply asleep. Though Hannibal could not be certain that Will’s profound and restful slumber could be attributed _entirely_ to Hannibal’s insistence on ravishing Will to exhaustion the night before, he liked to think so nonetheless. Hannibal could still smell it on him, rich and filthy and delicious, a bewitching contrast to the innocence of Will’s mussed curls and the long eyelashes lying against his soft cheeks.

Hannibal could not resist the memory of that serene, angelic mouth beautifully contorted in orgasm, any more than he could look upon the scar just above the line of Will’s beard resist thinking of their euphoric battle with the dragon. Will’s body was a map of Hannibal’s past, his present, and his future, and Hannibal found it infinitely splendid to look upon, though perhaps at no time more so than now, when it was cozy and tranquil and sated, and illuminated by the softest light.

Will shifted and snuffled, one splayed hand sliding against the sheets, searching Hannibal out. When it found him, Will grunted and wriggled closer to Hannibal, who welcomed him into his arms. Snuggled to his side, head on his chest and one arm flopped across his belly, Will immediately resumed his soft snoring. Hannibal nuzzled Will’s curls, sniffing them, and closed his eyes in bliss.


	24. Which mythological creature are you most like? Why?

Hannibal flung out an arm, and when it grasped at nothing, he lifted his head from the pillow to find that Will was out of bed. He grunted with disappointment. But Will was still in the room, and still quite naked, drinking coffee and gazing out the window.

It was unlikely that he would be able to coax Will back into bed. So he got up and crept up behind Will, encircling him with his arms and placing lazy, sleepy kisses where his shoulder met his neck.

“The willow warblers are here,” Will said, pointing. Hannibal looked out the window, and watched a flock of pale, lively songbirds as they landed in an ash tree, flitting about from branch to branch. He couldn’t claim to be particularly interested in that, not at the moment.

Will ignored Hannibal’s morning erection against his leg, and sipped his coffee. “They’re even earlier this year than last,” he said, “but they’re still too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“Climate change. It gets warmer earlier and earlier each year. Ten years ago the warblers wouldn’t have been here for another two or three weeks. But everything here is already blooming, and all the insects are hatching. By the time the young birds arrive, there won’t be enough food for them all. Next year, the warblers will return here earlier still, but there will be fewer of them.”

“Hmm, my little Asbolus,” Hannibal sighed, resting his chin on Will’s shoulder, “reading omens in the flight of birds.”

Will hummed ambivalently. “I would have thought myself to be more akin to Medusa.”

“Why is that,” Hannibal mumbled, as he nuzzled Will’s neck.

“Because every time I so much as glance at you,” Will said, rolling his eyes, “you get rock-hard.”


	25. What do they get each other for gifts?

One might think that it would be difficult to find a gift for someone as wealthy (and self-indulgent) as Hannibal Lecter, but Will never found it troublesome at all. The trick was merely to find something personal and special, something no one else could buy for him, something that, he did not even know he wanted in the first place. Something, perhaps, that they could share.

Christmas was a quiet affair; under the circumstances, it had to be just the two of them. But that was just fine. Under the tree were two gifts, one wrapped superbly, the other competently, and after a magnificent dinner, they sat in front of the tree and officially presented them to one another.

Hannibal opened his gift first. Beneath the wrapping was a discreet black box, inside of which was a sweep of smooth stainless steel, bulging and rounded at both ends, and small enough that Hannibal easily hefted it in the palm of his hand. The box had no label, and the item came with no instructions, but Hannibal easily surmised its purpose. “Is this for you to use on me, or for me to use on you?” he asked.

Will shrugged. “I figured you could decide that. It’s your gift.” He began to unwrap his own present.

As he did so, Hannibal mused, “I find it agonizing to have to make such a decision.” He watched Will discard the wrapping paper and open the box. “That’s why I got you this gift…”

Inside the box, Will found a substantial, though not impractical, black silicone dildo. It spanned the length of his arm and bore two bulbous heads, one at each end.

Hannibal waited for Will to look up, then smiled at him softly, saying, “…So we wouldn’t have to decide.”


End file.
